


If Only

by Curstaidh_Fraser



Series: Khazad October [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Family, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Khazâd October, Post-Hobbit, Regret, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curstaidh_Fraser/pseuds/Curstaidh_Fraser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dáin reflects on the deaths of his cousins and what he could have done to prevent them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only

**T.A., 2941, Winter – Erebor**

Dáin props his feet up on the table and tips his chair back to balance on the back two legs. The movement knocks dirt from his boots and on to the table that had just been wiped down by a lovely young dwarf from the kitchens. For a moment, he almost feels guilty, but he shoves that feeling away and knocks the toes of his boots together so that more dirt falls on to the table. He tips his mug of beer back drinking some, but spilling about half of it down the front of his filthy shirt.

Much has been done since the Battle of the Five Armies. The once gleaming halls of Erebor were slowly being returned to that state, not that Dáin minds the mess all that much. It is the stench of dragon that can still be found in some of the lesser used corridors that offends him the most. Once the battle was over news had been sent to the Iron Hills and to the Blue Mountains calling for Durin’s Folk to return to Erebor. Soon after that some did come. Many of Thorin’s folk remained in Ered Luin opting, since their king and princes were dead, to stay there with the lives that they had built.

Dáin’s own wife and son, Thorin, had arrived with the first contingent that had arrived from the Iron Hills. Thorin had been displeased about being left behind with Oakenshield had called upon them, but, in the end, Dáin was glad that he had left his son behind. He had to oversee the funeral of his cousins, two of them no older than his own son and he had been glad, if glad is the right word, that his son was not joining them and Aulë.

Thorin’s sister, Fíli and Kíli’s mother, Dís, had arrived today. Dáin had hoped to be away when she arrived with other wives, children, and mothers that had been left behind in Ered Luin. He would have preferred to leave his own wife to show Lady Dís the tombs of her brother and sons.

Since he had become King Under the Mountain, Dáin had been saying and doing quite a lot of things that he did not want to do. Dealing with that uppity pointy-eared elvish git was one of them. Dáin was ambivalent about King Bard, for as far as men go, he would say that Bard was a pretty good one. It was the fact that Dale lay right outside Erebor’s gates that rankled Dáin. This meant that he would have to be in frequent contact with another king. Part of him longs for the Iron Hills where his nearest neighbors were goblins, and one did not have to exchange pleasantries or niceties with them that went beyond a sharp swift axe cut to the head.

Dáin frowns into his empty mug. He slams the heel of his boot on the table – more dirt falls – and shouts, “MORE BEER!”

The dwarf at the end of the table, the only other person present in the great hall at this late hour, grunts and frowns.

Dáin scowls at him. “Fucker,” he curses under his breathe. He recognizes the bald dwarf at the end of the table. The dwarf had been one of Thorin’s company. He had not been in such good shape either. Dáin briefly considers calling the other dwarf over to drink with him, but he promptly forgets about that when the pretty young serving girl comes out into the hall carrying a small barrel.

She drops it heavily on the table before turning the tap to Dáin. She scowls.

“Thanks sweetheart,” Dáin lasciviously.

The girl rolls her eyes before walking away.

Dáin snorts before sloppily refilling his mug. He swirls the amber liquid around in the cup, spilling some out onto his hand. He stares at it. He had never wanted to be king of this mountain. He liked his hills. This, here, it was full of memories that are not his.

Memories that belong to his cousins. Memories that belonged to Thorin. Memories that used to belong to Frerin and memories that could have belonged to Dís’ sons. He had lead the funeral procession, with Balin whispering directions to him from behind. He still gets lost on his way to his chambers at night, and whenever he tries to go anywhere alone. This is not his mountains, someday it might be his sons, but to Dáin, it will always be Thorin’s mountain.

Dáin scowls at his drink before finishing it without stopping for breath. If only he had had his men standing by in case they had been called upon. If only he had joined the quest when Thorin had asked instead of laughing at him. Dáin remembers his response to Thorin’s request for aid all too well. Maybe he could have made the difference.

Thorin’s silent acceptance of Dáin’s refusal had hurt more than, if Thorin had railed at him. Shouted at him. Called him a blood traitor or a coward. If only, there had not been silence. Dáin wishes he knew why silence had been Thorin’s only answer. He wishes he had known his cousin better. While they had maintained contact after Azanulbizar where Frerin had died, along with Dáin’s father Náin, but they had never been close. Dáin could never profess to have known Thorin. Not like that sorry bastard that was sitting at the end of the table right now drinking away his own sorrows and guilt.

Dáin frowns. He blames the damned giant flying breathing pigeon for that, and for everything else. Náin and Thráin had been close, purely due to the proximity of the Iron Hills to Erebor, but when Smaug drove Erebor’s people out that proximity, that closeness, and that friendship had been taken away. The Iron Hills had neither the resources nor the space to take in Erebor’s disposed people, leaving them to wander Middle Earth like vagabonds that had been long bereft of honor.

If only . . .


End file.
